


Taste The Wine

by tofugumball



Category: Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofugumball/pseuds/tofugumball
Summary: “My dear, loyal Hastings,” Poirot says, letting emotion colour his voice. Hastings deserves to know how dear, how important he is to Poirot.
Relationships: Arthur Hastings/Hercule Poirot
Comments: 11
Kudos: 76





	Taste The Wine

Ever since he could, Poirot has been living alone. He needs the peace and quiet, and he likes having everything arranged the way _he_ prefers. The apartment at 56B Whitehaven Mansions is perfect, neat and comfortable and satisfyingly symmetrical, and Poirot is free to move through all his little daily rituals smoothly and with few interruptions.

Hastings once told him, as they were sitting down to breakfast, that watching him prepare a meal was like watching a dance. Poirot raised his eyebrows in amusement, asked him to elaborate, but Hastings refused, embarrassed, blaming the odd remark on the little sleep he’d got the night before. No matter. Sitting in his favourite armchair with a box of chocolates and a cup of perfectly brewed tisane beside him, Poirot can recall perfectly that morning, the expression on Hastings’ face as he said the words, open and admiring. The memory brings a smile to his face.

But that was many years ago. Their shared breakfasts are a thing of the past; Hastings’ life is in Argentina, now. The last time Poirot has seen him was over a year ago.

And while Poirot adores his spacious, quiet apartment, it does feel empty at times, especially if he’s not working on a case. After Miss Lemon leaves for the day, there really is no one there besides himself. Poirot sits in his armchair and acknowledges the facts: yes, it does get lonely sometimes.

He continues to cling to the idea of Vera Rossakoff, hopeless and pathetic as it feels. It makes for a good excuse whenever Hastings tries to pry, with all the awkward indirectness of a well-meaning English gentleman, into Poirot’s private life.

“I am already perfectly satisfied with my life as it is now, _mon ami_ ,” he always says, smiling reassuringly. But that was only true before Hastings up and left, married a brilliant woman and moved to the other end of the world, leaving behind England and Poirot and the exhilarating yet comfortable life they’ve built together over the years.

At the end of the day, Poirot was not enough.

“ _Allo_? Inspector Japp?”

“Poirot? What’s the matter?” There’s noise in the background, shrill voices and something that sounds like dragging a heavy object across the floor. The contrast between the bustling life of a family home and his own silent apartment is suddenly jarring.

“Ah, this is perhaps not the best time?” The call doesn’t seem like a good idea anymore. “You are busy, Inspector, _n’est-ce pas_? I will call some other time. Goodbye.”

The tea is delicious. It really is a shame that Hastings could never appreciate the excellence of a strong cup of tisane. Their tastes were so different; it was impossible, for either of them, to forget that Poirot would never fit in with the people among whom he chose to live his life.

It’s easy to give in to melancholy. So much death and violence in the world, so much evil under the sun, and Poirot has seen most of it. There are ghosts living all around him; some of them he remembers, some of them not, but all of them come awake in hours like this. _Thank you, Hercule,_ they seem to whisper as he rests with his eyes closed, _thank you_ _for giving us justice. We’ll stay with you; you won’t be alone when you die._ Poirot frowns and shakes his head minutely.

Oh, the absurdity of old age! The dangers of senility! But Poirot is not old yet, not even close! It is simply the effect of too much solitude – too much of a good thing. It crept up on him, made him tired and weary despite him being in the prime of his life. He needs to be around people. He ought to stop turning down all the invitations. Tomorrow, he decides, he will go out and move past this ‘slump’, as Inspector Japp would call it.

But for now, the room is empty. Poirot sighs and takes another chocolate.

“Mr Poirot, wonderful news,” Miss Lemon greets him the very next morning. “A telegram from Captain Hastings!”

Just like that, the melancholy that’s been weighing him down for weeks melts away. The morning passes quickly, Miss Lemon watching with happy eyes as Poirot bustles about the apartment, undertaking a task and then promptly abandoning it for another, all his usual precise focus forgotten.

He feels twenty years younger as he makes his way to the airport that afternoon, his chest tight with nervous anticipation. Poirot hates both flying and airports – flying terrifies him and even just being at an airport never fails to make him jittery and anxious – but he always comes to pick up Hastings.

“Hastings!” Poirot cries out, propriety forgotten, as he spots his old friend in the crowd. In an instant, their hands are clasped together and Hastings’ soft eyes are looking down at him, filled with warmest of affections.

“Poirot,” Hastings says feelingly. His smile hasn’t changed at all. “My dear chap.”

Poirot beams. “My _cher_ Hastings!”

It feels just as good as Poirot remembered to be looking into Hastings’ eyes. It’s as if they never parted, their lives falling immediately back into place, together.

At least that’s what he thinks, until they’re all back at the apartment that evening, Hastings, Miss Lemon, Inspector Japp and him, drinking wine and toasting to Hastings’ successful journey back home.

“Well, I suppose England will always be my home, in a way,” Hastings muses as he sets his glass down, “but I have to say it would feel dishonest if I did not give precedence to our ranch.”

It should not come as a surprise, especially not after this many years, but still Poirot finds himself thinking about those words long after everyone has left and it’s just him in the apartment, him and the sound of the clock ticking away.

The bitter irony! That _Hastings_ should be the immigrant, now.

The simple truth of it is this: Poirot has been waiting for the whole endeavour to fail. Hastings had always failed up until this point, his romances and investments falling through, leaving him crushed or just disappointed and leading him right back to the safety of Poirot’s apartment, Poirot’s wisdom, Poirot’s sympathy and advice. But at the end of the day, Poirot was not enough.

“I honestly think I’m sure about this, Poirot,” Hastings told him, weeks before it happened. He left Poirot a lot of time to get used to the thought, but Poirot never did. He didn’t think he needed to. Now that he looks back and examines the darker places of his heart, it’s clear to him that he expected Hastings to be back in England and licking his wounds before the year was over.

“I wish I was clever like you, Poirot,” Hastings used to sigh often, after Poirot had spectacularly solved another impossible case and was basking in triumph, indulging in one of his more expensive bottles of wine or boxes of chocolates. How many times they have celebrated together like this, quiet, comfortable in each other’s company. Happy.

Poirot sits in his armchair and looks at the facts: He was happy then. He is not happy now.

“Do you ever think about it, Poirot? Growing old?” Hastings asks him the next day. He turns sideways to look at Poirot as he says it, shielding his eyes from the sun.

They’re sitting on their park bench, the one near the lake but not close enough for the children’s shouting to disturb them. They used to come here all the time on the warmer days. Once, Hastings brought a wooden toy boat and set it gently on the water. He was so excited, watching the floating boat with a happy expression Poirot couldn’t look away from.

“Of course I do,” Poirot replies. It’s an exceptionally sunny day, almost too hot for comfort.

“Does it not scare you?” It’s not usually like Hastings to talk this directly. Poirot inclines his head and waits for him to continue. “It scares me, sometimes. Dulcie doesn’t understand that at all. She rarely thinks about death, if you can believe that. She says she can’t wait to grow old. She wants to be an agile old lady and spoil her future grandchildren. But I don’t– I don’t want that at all.”

“We are not old yet, Hastings–”

“But soon– we _will_ be.” He raises his voice in frustration, startling Poirot. He looks embarrassed and quickly lays an apologetic hand on Poirot’s forearm.

“I’m sorry, Poirot. I’m sorry. I just wish I could stop thinking about this. It’s been in the back of my mind ever since George was born.”

Poirot nods slowly. His heart aches for his friend, but he can’t feel afraid himself, not now. Not when Hastings is back here with him, sitting on their favourite bench and squeezing his forearm one last time before letting go.

Hastings is not done yet. He must have carried this fear with him for so long without sharing it with anyone, for it to come pouring out of him like this. He says his wife doesn’t understand him; did he wish he could talk to Poirot, instead? Was he hoping this conversation would happen? Or is this outburst as surprising to him as it is to Poirot, who thought he knew his friend so well?

“When I think about old age, it all just seems so hopeless to me. Being old seems nothing more than waiting around for death.”

Poirot smiles. “You and your poetic similes, Hastings! Is this what wild Argentine life has done to my English friend? Ah, but you were like this before, Poirot remembers. Do you recall that one morning at Whitehaven Mansions when you said– what was it? That watching me is like watching a dance.”

“Did I really say that?” Hastings looks down at the ground, embarrassed.

“You did, _mon ami_. It is a fond memory of mine. But allow me to say this: death is only scary when it is violent. We have seen it many times, Hastings. We have seen it all, murder, suicide. Why should you be scared of falling asleep after a long day? That is how I think about it.”

They are silent for a moment. “I wish I was clever like you, Poirot,” Hastings sighs.

“My dear, loyal Hastings,” Poirot says, letting emotion colour his voice. Hastings deserves to know how dear, how important he is to Poirot.

The sun glares down on them. Poirot blinks and wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. He has nothing to say to Hastings in this moment, perfectly content to simply sit here beside him, but the silence doesn’t last long.

Hastings seizes both of Poirot’s hands and holds them in his own. “Poirot, are you happy?” There’s an urgency to his voice, a pleading note that makes Poirot’s chest tighten. He blinks several times before speaking.

“In this moment? Yes, I am very happy.” Hastings is looking intently into his face, so he smiles, but Hastings is not satisfied.

“I want you to be happy always,” he says, frowning.

“My dear Hastings,” Poirot says gently, “we both know better than to aim for that. But I can promise you that as long as we both live, I will be happy in moments like this.”

Hastings nods, then smiles, his gaze losing some of that intensity. “I need to visit more often, is that what you are saying?”

“Yes,” Poirot smiles back. Hastings’ soft eyes are looking into his. In this moment, they are both happy. In this moment, Poirot is enough. “Yes, it is.”

And Hastings, his sweet, good Hastings, as always, follows his advice.


End file.
